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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024356">with long waving hair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecloudqueen/pseuds/thecloudqueen'>thecloudqueen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>House Stark and PTSD [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sister-Sister Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:28:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecloudqueen/pseuds/thecloudqueen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just hair, she’d had it cut a dozen times. There was no reason for the spike of fear, the feeling that she was standing before a battlefield. No reason at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arya Stark &amp; Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>House Stark and PTSD [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>with long waving hair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Part of a series of my headcanons about post-ASOIAF Starklings and their trauma. </p>
<p>This is inspired by a headcanon I read on Tumblr about Arya keeping her hair long post-series, due to being denied the choice to in the past.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sansa was fussing.</p>
<p>This was nothing new. Sansa had spent most of Arya’s life fussing. As children, the fussing had been about a torn dress, or a harmless prank, or Arya playing dolls incorrectly. (In Arya’s opinion, her dolls would enjoy themselves much more on an adventure than at one of Sansa’s tea parties, but that wasn’t the point.) At the time, Arya had hated it, but now the familiarity of it made her smile. It didn’t hurt that, as acting Lady of Winterfell, her sister had several things she could fuss over that were both productive, and didn’t involve Arya.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, today it did involve Arya.</p>
<p>The Lady of Winterfell’s sharp blue eyes took in every inch of Arya’s appearance, and she would have squirmed if not for the Kindly Man’s teachings. Her older sister looked more like their mother every day, and she felt like she was nine years old again, under Lady Catelyn’s gaze.</p>
<p>
  <em>Better to think of her mother like that, though, than as the thing she became.</em>
</p>
<p>Tonight was to be a grand feast, in honor of Lady Wynafryd’s betrothal. Because of that, Arya had actually made an effort to look presentable. It helped that Sansa’s idea of “presentable” had changed since they were children. Upon Arya’s return to Winterfell, Sansa had commissioned a new wardrobe for her, containing both gowns of Stark white and gray, and men’s tunics. Her sister had even sewn some of them herself, painstakingly embroidering wolf symbols throughout. No one, even Sansa, blinked an eye when Arya came to formal events in men’s formalwear, and in return, Arya tried dresses again, finding that when she wasn’t riding or fighting or running around, they weren’t that bad.</p>
<p>Today she was even wearing one, the one that Sansa had made for her, with a dagger strapped in her ornately woven belt. She knew the dress would pass her sister’s inspection, but unfortunately, Sansa had found something worth fussing about.</p>
<p>“Arya, when was the last time you cut your hair?”</p>
<p>And suddenly <em>she was</em> <em>a child, and terrified, and Yoren’s dagger was at her throat and Father was dead and the hair was falling and she thought she would be killed as well and </em>“It’s been a while,” she said blithely. Her heart was pounding in her chest so loudly she wondered if Sansa could hear it, and her palms were oddly wet.</p>
<p>Sansa gently picked up a lock of brown hair. “You have split ends. And while I’m proud of you for <em>brushing</em> it, for once, would you mind if I at least gave it a trim?” When Arya hesitated, she added, “Mya assured me I’m not horrible at it.”</p>
<p>That wasn’t why Arya had hesitated, but she nodded her assent anyway. It was just hair, she’d had it cut a dozen times. There was no reason for the spike of fear, the feeling that she was standing before a battlefield. No reason at all. She allowed herself to be pushed into a chair, and waited stiff as a board as her sister pulled a comb through it.</p>
<p>“It’s getting so long now,” Sansa said conversationally as she tried to comb out a knot Arya <em>swore</em> wasn’t there half an hour ago. “Do you simply want a trim, or would you like it short again? I know you used to hate having it long.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care.” Obviously. She may wear dresses and attend balls, but that didn’t make her some proper lady. She didn’t care about her stupid hair or whether it was long or short, but <em>she was dirty and scared and the Hound was cutting out clumps of hair, leaving bald spots and unevenness, and her mother wouldn’t want her like this and </em>“Long. Keep it long.”</p>
<p>Odd. She hadn’t planned on answering.</p>
<p>Sansa had set down the comb and reached for a knife. Almost all of Arya’s training longed to snatch it from her hands before it got too close to her neck, but she forced herself to stay still. It was just <em>Sansa</em>. No matter that she wanted to grab it and embed the offending object in a wall or in the ground or in the Trident with Joffrey’s sword.</p>
<p><em>Calm as still water</em>, she reminded herself, and for a moment she was fine, but then <em>she was no one, really, and the Waif was shaving her, explaining that a beggar like Beth wouldn’t want her hair to get in the way, and she didn’t care about her stupid hair or her stupid appearance but she wanted to choose, please, just for once and </em></p>
<p>“Arya!”</p>
<p>The sharp word pulled her out of the river of her thoughts. She had been drowning in them, and she felt as if her mind was choking on the muddy water. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and even a moment of disorientation was too long. <em>Get over yourself</em>, she scolded her thoughts, scolded the shaking and shivering Arya in her brain. <em>It’s just hair.</em></p>
<p>“What’s the matter, sister? Is my hair too unseemly for your <em>superior</em> skills?” teased Arya, forcing herself to smile lightly. Sansa did not return the smile.</p>
<p>“You just went… blank, for a moment. Arya, are you well? Shall I send for the maester?”</p>
<p>“No!” She practically yelled the word. <em>I’m fine, I’m fine</em>, she wanted to scream, to Sansa and the maester and all the little girls she used to be. But the words caught on her tongue, and Sansa was still looking at her with that <em>concerned</em> look and she found herself saying “I don’t like having my hair cut.” The words tumbled out one after the other, tears forming in her eyes, and she flinched, because she had starved and fought Others and assassins and she was crying like a stupid child about <em>hair</em>?</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Sansa simply, her tone not giving away her thoughts. Arya blinked away the tears and looked up at her sister, who shrugged.</p>
<p>“In that case, no need. You look lovely, as is. Perhaps when it gets a little longer I can show you some braided styles. They would look beautiful on you.” Sansa took a deep breath. “It’s <em>your</em> hair, Arya, and your body. I – I won’t force you to change them. It’s just an offer.”</p>
<p>“I’d like that,” she admitted. And then suddenly they were hugging, with no care for Arya’s dress getting crumpled or Sansa’s own immaculately styled hair, and Arya was <em>safe</em>.</p>
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